Woman dies getting dyed
This is probably due to the fact that we stroll hand in hand. It’s harder to fight when you’re touching someone (unless, of course, you’re choking him.) When our palms get sweaty, we merely switch places.
A while back we met another middle-aged couple we know. After calling out a greeting, I asked, “Why aren’t you holding hands?”
The wife explained that she needed her arms free to power walk. “It’s good for the heart,” she said.
“So is holding hands,” I replied.
I felt less chipper on our last stroll as I headed out the door. “Beauty before age,” Dan said as he followed behind me. “No, wait! Beauty and age.”
“Thanks a heap,” I said. “I look plenty aged these days. My hair’s getting so gray.”
I waited for him to disagree but heard nothing.
“I should color it but it’s such a pain to dye it myself.”
“Hey, I could do it for ya,” Dan offered.
One of my eyebrows raised skeptically.
“I did it once before. Don’t you remember?”
“Not exactly,” I replied. Then again, my memory has succumbed to that age thing, too.
I figured he’d forget the idea by the time we got home, but instead he hauled a barstool up to the kitchen and grabbed the necessary tools.
“You’ll need to wear these plastic gloves,” I coached, ripping them off of the instruction sheet. “I wonder if they’re the right size.”
“Oh, sure,” he said. “They make them to fit male hairdressers, don’t they?” It took five minutes of squeezing, but he finally tugged them on. Then he applied some stinky goop to his bride’s hair.
When he finished the messy part, he wrapped a plastic bag, “bread crumbs and all,” around my head. North of my nose, of course. I’d hate to generate a headline like, “Woman Dies Getting Dyed.”
“Thanks, pops,” I said. “I’ll take it from here.” After the proper waiting period, I rinsed and blow-dried my hair. Or is that blew-dry?
At any rate, I feel a tad younger these days, and look forward to our next lovey-dovey stroll. Those who see us will wonder, does she or doesn’t she?
Only her husband knows for sure.